


Before You Run

by stormproofmatchgirl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Broken Derek, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e07 Currents, Sad Derek, Stiles Takes Care Of Derek, Stiles in charge, pre-slash or possibly extreme bro bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2255655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormproofmatchgirl/pseuds/stormproofmatchgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what happens after the shoulder-touch.</p><p> <i>Derek’s skin is wet and freezing. “It’s okay,” Stiles breathes, pulling gently, like he’s the Werewolf Whisperer or something. Derek allows himself to be led, rises slowly from the water, glancing at the hold Stiles has on him with a furrowed brow like he’s not sure why any of this is happening. Which is a valid sentiment. Boyd didn’t deserve this. And as much as Derek’s screwed up in the past, Stiles is pretty damn sure there’s nothing he could have done to deserve this either. It just sucks.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

His pants are soaked. His shoes are soaked. His socks are soaked. His feet are so cold they’re practically numb. And Stiles might give a shit about any of that if he wasn’t staring at Boyd’s lifeless body in Cora’s arms. He’s not entirely sure how it happened, but the look on Derek’s face and the way he’s holding his blood soaked hands turns a knot in Stiles’ stomach. 

No one knows what to do, how to move forward from this horrific tableau. For a while, they all simply exist because it’s all they can manage; Isaac and Lydia holding a still frightened Ms. Blake, Cora running soothing hands over Boyd’s cheeks. Stiles too, is unable to fathom what he could possibly do other than stand there with his hand on Derek’s trembling shoulder.

Finally, the desire to know what happened becomes too strong, and Stiles turns towards the open doorway, to Isaac. “What did they do?” he says quietly, knowing Isaac will hear him well enough. 

“They were shocked—weak,” Isaac says, each word drenched in anger and grief. “The… the twins forced his hands to… forced him to… and Kali held Boyd…” For all that his explanation is fragmented, Stiles manages to fill in the blanks. The Alphas killed Boyd, only they used Derek’s claws as their weapon of choice. Stiles shudders.

“This isn’t on you, Derek,” Isaac adds, but Derek doesn’t show any signs of hearing him. 

Stiles squeezes his shoulder. “Derek?” Still nothing. This isn’t good. They need to get out of this disaster area.

“We can’t stay here. None of us,” Stiles says. “Lydia? Can you take Ms. Blake home?”

Lydia nods, but Ms. Blake pulls on her arm. “No. Derek—I should… I should stay,” she says, struggling weakly to push past Lydia into the apartment. 

Stiles breathes a little easier when Derek quickly says, “Go,” even though it sounds fractured and raw. At least he’s still in there. At least he hasn’t gone completely catatonic like Peter. And at least it means Ms. Blake will go with Lydia now. Of course that means…

“We’ll take care of Boyd,” Isaac says, already next to Cora, reaching into the cold water for Boyd’s legs. 

“Stiles,” Cora says, “Can you take Derek somewhere? Please. Just stay with him… until I get back?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he says, even though it terrifies him. Where is he going to take him? What is he going to say? What could he _possibly_ say? Derek’s devastated to the point of being in a trance, and Stiles isn’t exactly one of his favourite people in the world. What if he only makes things worse? 

Well, fuck. If his options are keep an eye on a traumatized werewolf or bury a dead body, Stiles will take door number one. He’ll muddle through.

Lydia and Ms. Blake slip out. Cora and Isaac carry Boyd away, trudging through the shallow water like it’s tar. The only ones left now are Stiles and Derek. And the only thing left to do is get Derek to actually move. 

Stiles should face him, he decides. So he finally takes his hand off Derek’s shoulder and moves into his line of vision, which is still aimed where Boyd’s body lay moments ago. He hunches over and Derek’s eyes flicker in response to being confronted with Stiles’ face, then fall to his own blood-stained hands. Stiles forces himself not to look. He focuses on Derek’s face, which isn’t much better, considering there’s some blood on that too, only mixed with tear tracks. “Derek? I can’t let you stay here, buddy,” Stiles says.

Miraculously, Derek nods. Maybe this won’t be as hard as Stiles thought it would be. He straightens, and waits for Derek to get up.

Derek doesn’t move. 

Or maybe Stiles should stop making assumptions about anything in his life being easy.

Manhandling is the next viable option, and it terrifies Stiles a little bit. Derek just killed someone. Sure, it wasn’t his fault, but the guy can’t exactly be emotionally balanced right now. And even when he is—well, relative to Derek at least—he’s still been known to threaten Stiles with bodily harm. It’s strange. Because on the one hand Stiles is worried for his own safety, but on the other he can’t help but be worried about Derek too. It turns out, though, that his concern for Derek actually outweighs his concern for himself, which… might be a first. And so he steels himself and reaches for Derek’s arm.

Derek’s skin is wet and freezing. “It’s okay,” Stiles breathes, pulling gently, like he’s the Werewolf Whisperer or something. Derek allows himself to be led, rises slowly from the water, glancing at the hold Stiles has on him with a furrowed brow like he’s not sure why any of this is happening. Which is a valid sentiment. Boyd didn’t deserve this. And as much as Derek’s screwed up in the past, Stiles is pretty damn sure there’s nothing he could have done to deserve this either. It just sucks.

They’re half-way to the door when Stiles realizes Derek’s going to need some dry clothes; his are completely drenched, and his shirt has Boyd’s blood on it. The last thing Derek needs is a constant reminder of what happened tonight splattered across his chest. 

Stiles leads Derek as far as the front door, says “Stay right here, okay?” All Derek does in response is press his forehead against the archway, which seems sedentary enough, so Stiles wades his way back across the flooded apartment, over to the dresser next to Derek’s bed. Reaching for the top drawer, he feels his phone vibrating in his back pocket. 

It’s Scott.

_—Just talked to Lydia. You still with Dk?_

—Yeah. Deaton okay?

_—Yeah. Derek?_

—Not great. Trying to get him out of apt.

_—Good. Call me in AM._

—K.

Stiles shoves his phone back in his pocket, glances back at Derek, who’s still hunched against the door frame, his arms hanging on his sides like he’s afraid to use them. And Stiles can’t help being a little pissed off at Scott for not dropping everything to come help him. Then again, he’s not sure what went down at the bank exactly. Maybe Scott needed to stay with Deaton. He’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

Derek’s clothes are folded and organized with military precision, which seems to fit with the whole Spartan lifestyle. Luckily, that means it doesn’t take long for Stiles to find a clean henley and pair of jeans. Cringing with embarrassment, he bravely snags a pair of boxer-briefs and stuffs it in between the folds of the jeans. When all this is over, he’s definitely applying for Sainthood status.

“Good to go,” Stiles says, once he’s splashed his way back to the door with Derek’s clothes tucked under one arm. Another tear streams down Derek’s devastated face as he looks back towards the site of Boyd’s death, and it fuels Stiles’ desire to get out of there even more quickly. He throws an arm around Derek’s back and herds him down the hallway, slamming the door behind them.

 

By the time they get to Stiles’ Jeep, Derek’s whole body is wracked with shivers. Stiles isn’t sure if Werewolves can go into shock, but he sure doesn’t like how convincing Derek’s impersonation of it happens to be. He leads him into the passenger seat and then heads for the trunk.

He has to shake a few dead leaves (and possibly some old Doritos crumbs) off of it, but otherwise the old wool blanket is basically clean. He holds it up for Derek’s approval, but the way Derek stares at it blankly, it might as well be a piece of shitty abstract art.

“I’m sorry, but you’re freezing, dude,” he says, daring to first coax Derek into leaning forward, then wrap the blanket around his back and fold it over his chest. Derek is pliant, unfazed, and Stiles isn’t sure if he should be grateful or just more worried. 

He stops to rub his hands up and down Derek’s arms without thinking, then catches himself, stills. Derek looks at him, his expression unreadable. “I—I’ll get the heater going…” Stiles stammers, and shuts the passenger door.

This particular corner of Beacon Hills is still in the early phases of gentrification. In fact, Stiles is pretty sure Derek is breaking ground as far as that goes. An eclectic array of shitty cars (a couple with plastic bags for windows) dot the sidewalks, a few bikers are busy smashing beer bottles against a concrete divider at the end of the block, and somewhere, a very angry sounding dog is barking. Stiles jumps into the driver’s seat and tries to think. He needs to figure out where the hell they’re going. Especially if he doesn’t want to stay in Grand Theft Auto Land any longer than he has to. 

He could drop Derek at some roadside motel and go home, but that seems cold. He could take him to the old Hale House, but it’s probably too dangerous. Or he could ditch him with Scott—who probably isn’t even home yet.

Stiles sighs and turns the ignition, wonders why the universe keeps landing Derek Hale, of all people, in the Stilinski house. Then he looks at Derek, huddled under the blanket, eyes shut tight, still trembling. Stiles’ needs to stop feeling sorry for himself. Clearly, things could be a lot worse. He could be Derek.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles expects Derek to shoot him a look of disapproval when they pull into his driveway. Instead, he doesn’t even seem to notice. Because Derek isn’t there, Stiles realizes. They could have landed on the moon, and he would still be back in his loft, reliving the horror of Boyd’s death. Stiles managed to get him out of there in body, but his mind never left. 

He leads Derek into the house in much the same way he led him out of the apartment, the way his parents used to lead him back to bed when they found him sleepwalking. When they reach Stiles’ bedroom, he sets down Derek’s clean clothes on his desk and glances at his alarm clock. It’s just past 1 in the morning. The room is a legitimate disaster, his bed strewn with half a dozen mythology books, dirty laundry, and some unfinished math homework. Stiles collects it into a mishmash pile and dumps it on the ground, tugs his sheets into something vaguely resembling a made bed, and sits Derek down on the edge of his mattress. Derek still has the wool blanket, but it’s fallen off one of his shoulders so that it’s draped across his chest like a toga. His head is bowed and his hands are tucked between his knees, the blood that’s surely still caked into his skin hidden from sight. His wet hair is still plastered to his forehead. For someone so much bigger than Stiles, he looks remarkably small.

“I’ll be right back,” Stiles says, and slips down the hall to the bathroom. He finds a plastic basin under the sink and fills it with hot, soapy water. With that, a couple of hand towels and a big bath towel, he heads back to his room. Derek hasn’t moved. 

Stiles places the basin on the floor near Derek’s feet—or more accurately, his sopping wet boots. 

Socks, Stiles realizes. He’s such an idiot. How could he forget dry socks? There’s nothing worse than having to walk around in wet socks—which happens to be something Stiles is doing at the moment as well. But first things first. The blood has to go.

“So…” Stiles says, crouching in front of Derek. He bites down on his lip, worried about saying the wrong thing and making Derek bolt. “So this is like, all kinds of awkward— but I figured you might wanna clean up a little. Thing is, I get the feeling that if I leave you here by yourself to do all this junk, nothing’s gonna happen. I’m gonna come back in half an hour, and you’ll be sitting here just like you are right now. You think that’s a fair prediction?”

Stiles cranes his neck a little, seeking out eye contact, some kind of response from Derek that might indicate he’s wrong. That Derek’s quite capable of washing his own hands and face, thank you very much. He doesn’t find it.

“Shit. Okay, so this is happening,” Stiles says to himself, and submerges one of the smaller towels in the warm water. Then to Derek, “Just remember, you had your chance to pick up the ball, so no body-checking, alright?” 

He can hear Derek breathing from his nose, a little faster than it should be, a little ragged. He slips his fingers around Derek’s forearms, eases his hands out from hiding. They still aren’t quite steady. He wrings out the towel and starts trailing it over Derek’s skin. Derek blinks up at him owlishly, and Stiles smiles a little.

“Hey,” he says.

Something must break inside Derek then, because he pulls his hands away, mutters, “Stop… stop it… please….” and scrambles off the bed, backs himself against the wall just next to it, the blanket tangling around his feet. Stiles raises his hands in surrender, wet towel draped over one arm, dripping slowly onto the carpet.

“It’s cool. We’re cool. Not touching,” Stiles blathers, praying Derek won’t turn. But Derek doesn’t look angry. Instead, he closes his eyes, leans his back against the wall. He’s trying to pull himself together. 

“I have to go,” he rasps, his eyes darting between the window and the door. 

“No! Just—hold on. Please,” Stiles begs. “I told your sister I’d keep an eye on you. She’ll rip me to teeny-tiny pieces if I let you take off. So just—”

“She—Boyd—“

“Yeah. She and Isaac are… they’re taking care of him, okay?”

Derek nods. His face tightens and Stiles watches as his eyes blossom with tears. 

So here’s the thing; Stiles might come across as being a little insensitive sometimes, what with using humour as a defence mechanism and all, but he actually has a lot of empathy. Maybe it has something to do with taking care of his mom when she was sick, or maybe he’s always been this way. All he knows for sure is that when he’s placed smack-dab in front of someone who’s clearly falling apart, his gut instinct is to try his damnedest to hold them together. Sometimes, literally.

So his instincts kick in, and without hesitation, Stiles pulls Derek into a hug. He knows there’s a pretty good chance Derek will push him away, but is surprised when he actually has to steady himself as the weight of Derek’s head immediately presses against his shoulder. The chilly dampness from Derek’s shirt sends goosebumps up Stiles’ chest. He rubs his hand along Derek’s spine, and Derek clenches the material of Stiles’ flannel shirt in both his fists. And Stiles thinks, maybe, if he hugs him tight enough, Derek will finally stop shaking.

It’s Derek who loosens his hold first, sinks back onto the bed. He looks away from Stiles, and when Stiles moves into his view he turns away again, like he’s too ashamed to face him now that he’s shown some kind of need.

“I’m sorry,” he says brokenly. “I can—I mean—You don’t have to…”

Stiles nods, drops the towel back in the soapy water. It should be a good thing, that Derek has snapped back to the here-and-now, but it doesn’t make Stiles feel any better listening to him apologize for his grief. Stiles understands all too well what it’s like to believe you’re not entitled to that, to believe it only makes you a burden to the people around you. 

But he also knows that Derek’s boundaries have already been pushed past their limit tonight. He could probably use a little space.

“Your clothes are on the desk. I’ll go see if I can find some clean socks to steal from my dad. I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything, okay?”

Derek scratches nervously at his shoulder and nods at the floor.

“And Derek?” Stiles says, grabbing the edge of the doorway on his way out, “You don’t have to be sorry.”

When Stiles comes back, the window is open and all that’s left of Derek is a pile of wet clothes and a bucket of water tinted pink from Boyd’s blood. 

Three days later, Stiles is back at the loft, pretending he cares about Derek’s whereabouts for a million reasons except the real one.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr: [scruffwolf](scruffwolf.tumblr.com). My shiny new Derek Hale sideblog needs followers!


End file.
